


Nature of a Namesake

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Family, Father and Son, Gen, Grief, Honor, Love, Nature, Sorrow, Suffering, discussion of suicide, namesake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: In the forest, Jon discusses with Roald the nature of his namesake.





	Nature of a Namesake

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for discussion of suicide. Please exercise discretion if that topic may be triggering for you.

Nature of a Namesake

“Papa.” Roald had spoken the minimum expected of good manners during their morning ride through the Royal Forest, and Jon, aware of his son’s quiet nature, had allowed quiet to fall between them so he was surprised when Roald broke the silence as they sat resting on an old, mossy stump not far from the ravine where his own father had once jumped to his death. As if he could read Jon’s thoughts as simply as a Mithran priest could sacred scripture, Roald went on soft as the wind rustling the leaves in the green canopy above their heads, “I heard whispers that your father’s hunting accident wasn’t truly an accident.” 

Jon closed his eyes, hating court gossip for digging up rumors and memories that should have been buried long ago within his son’s hearing. He couldn’t lie to his son especially now that Roald was old enough to being page training in the autumn. At last he said, voice heavy as his heart with a wound that would never be fully healed, “That’s because it wasn’t an accident.” 

“The Black God’s priests say it’s the worst sacrilege to try to usurp his place as the claimer of all souls by taking your own life. They insist that it’s the Black God’s decision when we die, not our own.” Roald’s forehead furrowed. “They warn that the Black God can show no mercy on those who take their own lives.” 

“Those who take their own lives are often so burdened by their grief that the Black God couldn’t help but be persuaded to show mercy upon their poor souls.” Jon kissed his son’s crinkled forehead. Bitterness at how his father had taken his own life—abandoning his duty to the realm when it most needed his leadership after Roger’s resurrection—had long ago faded into sorrow that his father hadn’t been there to see him marry Thayet or hold the children Thayet have given birth to in his arms. When he thought of his father, he felt sympathy for how shattered the man must have been after his beloved mother’s death and Roger’s vile betrayal. “My father had experienced so much sorrow after my mother’s death and my cousin’s treason that he couldn’t bear to rule or to live.” 

“He had a duty to his people and his family that he should’ve done no matter his sorrow.” Roald’s chin lifted with the stubbornness of a youth who had never suffered true loss and who still believed that duty was a question of determination. 

“Duty and grief can crush a person’s spirit over time as snow and wind can a tree.” Jon, spotting a metaphor in the making, pointed at the stump beneath them. “How would you tell how old this tree was when it fell, son?” 

“I’d count its rings.” Roald trailed a finger along the stump’s center to demonstrate. “Each year would represent a year of the tree’s life.” 

“Very clever. You know that time carves marking into the tree.” Jon’s finger joined his son’s in tracing the rough rings of the splintery stump. “Sometimes the markings time carves are like scars. You can see the lean years—the years of drought—that the tree endured in the sizes of some of its rings. Its rings are proof of its suffering, but you can’t see the tree’s pain until it collapses under the strain of a storm it can’t weather. People are the same when it comes to their duties and sorrows. We can’t see all the pain inside them until they fall.” 

Roald rubbed his finger reflectively over the fallen tree’s stump for a long moment before he asked, “Did you name me after your father to honor him as duty required, Papa?” 

Jon could hear in his son’s carefully respectful tone that Roald still regarded being named for a suicide more of a disgrace than an honor. 

“I’m your father.” Jon placed his palms on Roald’s shoulders that hadn’t begun to broaden with approaching manhood. “What does that mean to you, Roald?” 

“That I must honor and obey you always.” Roald’s words were a rote recitation of lessons his Mithran tutors had hammered into his head since he had learned to talk but Jon sensed the sincerity within them and smiled. 

“You’re a good son.” Jon squeezed Roald’s shoulder gently, thinking that sometimes Roald with his mild manner, traditional tendencies, and desire for peace and justice above all reminded him so much of his father that it made his heart feel tight as a clenched fist. “What of love though? Love is more important than honor and obedience. Do you love me?” 

“Of course I love you very much, Papa.” A ghost of a grin flickered across Roald’s forever serious face. 

“I love you too, son.” Jon pulled Roald to his chest for a strong hug. “As I did my father. That’s why I named you after him. He would be proud of you as I am.” 

Roald burrowed into Jon’s shoulder, obviously discomfited by the praise. “I want to make you proud, Papa. In all I do, I’ll honor you and him.” 

Jon understood that the “him” his son referred to was the Roald his boy would have preferred not to be his namesake as he responded, listening to his father’s spirit in the endless movement of branches above them, “I’ve no doubt you will.”


End file.
